Veins of History
by kosmokomik
Summary: Vignettes and outtakes from Constellations. Chapter 1: After Virmire, the arise of certain complications makes Shepard decide to sort out some things from her past. Liara/fem!Shepard pairing.


**Author's note: **_This is a kind of sequel to **Constellations**; however, while the previous was narrated from Liara T'Soni's perspective, this is as seen from Alba Shepard; an Earthborn Renegade. Time changes, and a writer changes. I needed to switch something around to be able to finish this story – which is something I aspire to do, because it's been coming and going in my head for almost a year now, and it deserves a proper conclusion. And a love story tends to need more than one perspective on the relationship._

_There may be some typos scattered around; for this, I deeply apologize. English is not my first language, and I have a problematic issue of switching between British English and American English when I speak and write. ESL students these days, you know?  
_

* * *

**I: Until We Bleed**

She had made her choice.

The sands of Virmire had truly gotten everywhere, Alba Shepard realized gloomily as she massaged wet hands through her greasy hair, pushing back the matted blonde strips from her forehead where they had hung limply since leaving the atmosphere. Eyes wide open, she took a deep breath through her nose and felt the ticklish scent of filtered, recycled water in her nostrils. She plunged herself into the icy cold shower, the water hitting against her sore body without cease, cascading down her skin and slowly washing away the fine sand from every crevice.

A headache, one that had been strumming up in her head since she had walked along the shoreline of Virmire, thunder and lightning on one side, sunshine and blue skies on the other, was pounding in her head with full force. It had blossomed out after she had found the Prothean beacon – the shimmering green light, the soft humming of it had attracted her to it, and also worsened the thin line of pain that had been pulsating within her head. It was positively _singing_ when she touched the beacon, and an interface had popped up.

Shepard hadn't understood it. Not consciously, at least. The beacon had just... Called out to her, and her hands had acted on their own, pressing the right sequence of buttons without a shred of doubt.

And then, it was like Eden Prime again, except... Less violent. This time, she had been ready, and the images had flowed together with the ones that were already there, forming a visual message. The metal, the screams, the scent of smoke in the air; it was still vividly real, and her fingers twitched somewhere far away, longing to reach out and touch the smoldering embers of destruction around her.

As the vision disintegrated and she was ejected out of the beacon's green glow, she had felt _it._ The feeling of... How could she define it? How could humanity, who hadn't even begun forming _words_ fifty thousand years ago, how could they possibly even begin to define the extinction of a race that had singularly dominated an entire galaxy? That a race, which must have committed their own heinous crimes and gone through their own intricate evolution, had been systematically eradicated? Planet after planet had fallen under a sky darkened by the appearance of Reapers, leaving only remains that the motions of the next thousands of years would wash away, as well.

Stretching her toes in the pool of water gathering at her feet, there was the distinct sensation of sand moving between her toes.

Her mind was moving in circles around the question of _why._ Why were the Reapers so interested in coming back? Why were they – as Liara had said, faced with the holographic representation of Sovereign (her blue eyes so wide, her wonder so apparent) – harvesting the galactic races? Why had Saren chosen to help them – or be controlled by them?

In the decision of who played what part in the galactic theatre, it seemed that the chance fell completely randomly. Though everyone involved had, of course, treaded a path of endless choices, small and large, that had put them in their exact spot where they were today. And today, of all days, there was a radioactive crater on a distant planet, glowing with the absence of any trace of who had been there.

She had made the choice. Now came the aftermath.

The door wheezed open and Shepard opened her eyes: heavy drops of water hung from her lashes, muddling the view she had over Tali.

"Did you find some?" Shepard asked. She noted how hoarse her voice was, and cleared her throat as she waved her hand behind her, turning off the flow of water.

Tali showed her hands, the thick wads of gauze practically spilling out between her six fingers. "The doctor asked me what I would use them for," she said, standing in front of the Commander.

"And what did you say?" Shepard wrapped a towel around her waist, securing it with a twist over her hips before she tentatively touched the chest plate that was stuck in its place, wincing slightly at the friction.

"That you had sent me."

Shepard and Chakwas had argued a couple of times during the mission: the doctor insisted that she be the one to treat wounds, while the commander was reluctant to let anyone treat her but herself. They had first clashed after Eden Prime, when Shepard had studied a set of stitches Chakwas had done while the former had been unconscious; Shepard argued that it had been sloppily done, which had insulted Chakwas. After a tense beginning, where the Commander had handled her own needle and thread with an elbow pressed against the medi-gel dispenser to keep a steady disinfectant flow, she had folded. Doctor Chakwas was allowed to treat her if she was unconscious, the wound was in a place Shepard couldn't reach by herself, or if it was a particularly nasty wound. The rest were Shepard's.

Shepard pulled up a plastic folding chair and put it in front of her. "Have a seat. Keep the gauze ready."

Tali sat herself down gingerly, seemingly ready to bounce out of the seat at any moment. Raising her cupped hands up, she tilted her head back; the glow of her eyes focused on Shepard's chest. "Does it hurt?"

"It... Is here, on my chest. Let's leave it at that." It hurt like a goddamn bitch.

When she had been gearing up for the Virmire assault, Williams had approached her in the make-shift tents the salarians had set up, half of her hardsuit done up while the arms hung limply at her sides. Without any words, she had given Shepard a fresh-from-the-box armor suit; the plates still shone with the glow of just having been polished. The black plates were slightly warm to the touch in the sunshine, and as she slid herself into it, piece by piece, she felt the red joints move softly. With the gloves on, she felt as if the armor had become a second skin.

Then, when the action had begun, she had registered a strain across her chest, a slight... Tingle. After a while of shooting-running-dodging-getting-blasted-backwards, she felt the sensation increase to a veritable burn. One that made her wince with each impact that her shields took; made her blink an extra time when she reached her right hand to trigger the mnemoics for a mass effect field; made her groan when Wrex had pushed her face-down onto the sand dunes to evade a missile.

Beginning with the effort to peel away the chest plate, she wondered what kind of scar – if any – she would have to show for it. It wasn't that she collected scars – they just had a tendency to end up on her, forming small and large paths across her body. And since she had never been interested in paying for scar reduction, when there were so many other, much more pleasant things to spend her credits on, they had been allowed to accumulate.

The trend in the military was to have a few, well-selected, well-placed (and understated, well-earned) scars that hinted at a successful military career. So when the recruits crossed paths with a naked Shepard in showers, some of them had averted their eyes – there was nothing trendy about looking like a minor battlefield by the time you were twenty-nine.

Of course, Shepard thought, feeling the scabbing let go of the skin on her left breast, she had chosen differently, and thus ended up different.

"Gauze," she said, and Tali's long fingers pushed a wad of it into the crack between plate and flesh. When it was secured, the commander let go of it, sighing a bit as she flexed her fingers. The utmost tips of her nails were covered in crusted, browning blood. "This doesn't bother you, Tali? If it does, you can leave."

"No!" the quarian exclaimed, eagerly leaning forward. "This is fascinating!" Her peculiar accent lingered on the last word, twisting it around in Shepard's ear. "This is... I'm sorry if I'm too excited, I know I shouldn't be, but this is something new. Just like everything here has been new. I want to see. I want to know."

"You're insatiable for knowledge." She slid a single finger under the right part of the chest plate, working a bit of leverage so she could insert a second digit and part some more skin from the armor.

"I'm... I want to feel and know the galaxy before I have to return. Before this is over."

Shepard wished, on some level, that she had Tali's unfaltering trust in that the mission would end, they would all survive, and that there would be a home to return to.

The plate moved with a jerk of the two fingers, dislodging itself from the majority of the right breast. As Shepard stuffed gauze in there, she cast a glance towards the corner of the small shower room where the pieces of the suit had been discarded into a pile.

Such a waste, she had thought, when she had begun cutting herself out of the armor. Normally, a suit malfunction like this – with blisters and chafe wounds – was a rare occurrence. Provided that the soldier had done the necessary modifications to the suit to fit the personal specifications. And for once, in the stress and rush to get the operation in motion, she had chosen added insurance against ammunition over personal comfort.

As the crew had settled in for the quick post-mission meeting, she had felt the headache pound within her head, the ache of her skin merging with her armor adding to the burden. She was the only one still in military gear, besides Wrex – and a few short sentences were uttered before the crew scattered. Sentences she could not remember now; insignificant little things, considering the larger picture.

Shepard had hit the showers, and as she struggled to get out of her armor, Tali had appeared out of nowhere, wielding the knife that was usually strapped to her boot. With a deft touch, she freed limb after limb with a few quick incisions, her gloved fingers gently skimming across each little wound and blister she uncovered. The Commander had watched the curious quarian's exploration of a human body, closing her eyes at the soothing touch Tali had, as well as the low chant of her muttering to herself.

Driving the wedge between plate and skin a bit deeper, Shepard sighed. "I feel old."

"You're barely more than ten years older than me," Tali replied. "But... Age is relative." She hesitated, seemingly weighing what she was about to say carefully. "Of all the persons onboard this ship, I would venture a guess that you and Wrex are the oldest. Relatively speaking."

"And you're the youngest."

"But not the only young one. Doctor T'Soni still has something about her. She appears to be untouched by the galaxy nearly as much as I have been. And we have both travelled, but we haven't _seen_."

"And are you seeing things now?" The chest plate cracked with a loud snap, parting down between Shepard's breasts. A spot of fresh, light red blood trailed its way down her stomach, pooling in her belly button.

"My eyes have been forced open."

"And so, you see..." She tapped her fingers against the left side of the chest plate, still held in place, however loosely. "Tali, I know this may be a bit out of what you normally do. But... Could you compile the information about what happened on Virmire? How the mission went down? It doesn't have to be in a formal presentation, but interview the salarians, Wrex, Joker... Everyone." She poked her tongue against the inside of the scar that ran along her cheek. "I'll give you extra rations. Buy you your favorite food. Tame a geth for you bring back to the Flotilla."

"I will settle for some extra rations, Shepard," Tali said, speaking slowly. "And... I don't mind doing it."

"Good, good." She waved her hand. "You can leave. Get some rest."

Tali bowed her head, rising from the seat and putting the remaining bundle of gauze on the chair before moving to the door. As she took one step out of the shower room, she turned, visor downcast, half-way out. "I wanted to say that I don't regret coming with you. Even if I'm alone here, even if we're all alone on this ship, I don't regret a single minute of it."

"Thank you." Shepard's reply was short and low, and she wondered if Tali even heard it – the next second she was gone, the door closed, and the room was left with only one occupant.

With a sharp tug, the chest plate dropped to the floor with a clatter, the bits of gauze previously tucked between it and her skin scattering over it as each strip was pulled off. Cradling her bleeding, scabbing breasts in her crossed arms, Alba Shepard closed her eyes.

She had made her choice. Just as she had made countless other choices throughout her life. There was no regret, just a lot of after-thought. And an excessive fatigue. Each choice had a weight to it, one which settled just behind the shoulder-blades. There were moments – and sometimes hours, sometimes days – when she needed the absolute silence of being alone to understand just what she had chosen to do.

She had made her choice. Now came the time to live with it.


End file.
